


An Appreciation for Irony

by bionically



Series: One Night Stand [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: It seemed as though it all boiled down to this moment, that all their years of surface hatred and ugly name-calling and the past months of flirtatious banter-it all had to happen for him to get up the nerve to say what he never thought he would ever say in the light of day.





	An Appreciation for Irony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riptey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptey/gifts).



> cross-posted at FF.net
> 
> This is the edited and latest version.

It took a literary man to appreciate irony, and Draco Malfoy was very much a literary man, having grown up with a natural inclination for words and a library that would have put ancient Alexandria to shame. But appreciating it and  _ appreciating  _ it were two different matters and two different definitions, and Draco did not at all enjoy how ironic life was being to him.

 

What was currently vexing him was how although he had started life at the top of the wizard food chain as a precocious, shamelessly adorable, and damnably wealthy kid, he would now be  _ persona non grata _ , despite his continuing top tier looks and undiminished wealth. This complete reversal of societal fortune was juxtaposed with that of his childhood enemy, Harry Potter, who supposedly had started out living under a staircase and ended up the national hero. But that irony had lost out to the fact that his scholastic nemesis, the girl he had steadfastly tortured throughout school, had become his reigning crush.

 

On bitter days, Draco considered that Muggle notion of karma and labeled his feelings as an inconvenient infatuation. On wistful days, he pondered all that life could have been and wasn't. For example, what would have happened if he had befriended Hermione Granger before she had been snapped up by the boy wonder? What would have happened if  _ he _ had been the boy wonder instead of Potter? He definitely wouldn't have gone for the Weaselette, that was for damn sure. But then Potter and his sidekick were never overflowing with brains and couldn't be expected to appreciate (there was that word again) a true prize, which Draco could see even as a prejudiced teenager.

 

Having grown up with parents who stressed bloodlines with the fanaticism of a professional hippocampi breeder, Draco was appreciative of true and lasting worth. Even as a kid brought up on blood purity, he could see that brains and a superior affinity for magic went far beyond a Pureblood in all but name only (witness Longbottom, the Squib orphan). And for all he made fun of her hair and teeth, he could now admit to himself that he had always found her rather taking. Her pouffy hair had made her look like a walking caricature in a cuddly sort of way. Frankly, he had even liked her big toothy smile before it got shrunk down in size (not that she spent much time smiling at  _ him _ ). But that was what little boys did when their secret crushes hung out with annoying prats day in and day out, and nobody had ever taught Draco how to act otherwise. If they had, honestly, his life might have panned out very differently.

 

It was just inconvenient that after all these years, he had to come to the realization that he really wasn't very polygamous in his dating habits after his age old crush reared its ugly head. 

 

Like now, for example, when she was late to these meetings and had him all in a tizzy over whether he would be stood up.

 

“Sorry I'm late,” she said right at that moment, breathlessly cutting into his useless thoughts.

 

“If it happens again,” he drawled with hauteur, “I'm not going to be waiting here like an errand boy. You know that, right, Granger?” Even as he spoke, he cursed himself.  _ No, no, no, Draco Malfoy, what are you doing?  _ But old habits died hard, and having gone a lifetime watching his father perfect the art of languid disdain had slowly but surely turned his blood cold. He was as incapable of laughing candidly as slouching at the dining table.

 

Hermione Granger pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, giving her ever-pouffy hair a self-conscious pat. (She needn't have bothered; that did nothing to help. And he rather enjoyed how it framed her face like a soft brown cloud.) She eyed him warily. “You know, you don't have to meet at all. It would work just as well if you had one of your employees speak to me.”

 

“Nothing doing,” he said. “I'm not trusting any of them to speak to a Ministry officer.”  _ Blast.  _ And now she thought he had something to hide. “That is to say, many of our recipes are patented.” Now it seemed like he didn't trust  _ her _ .

 

“Well, if you're so busy,” she said dryly. “I can see how your business affairs are a burden on your personal life.”

 

With that, he knew she was referring to the recent article in  _ Witch Weekly _ . He tried to remain stoic, but he knew his cheeks had started to flush, only not for the reason she was probably thinking. His sexual prowess was widely discussed and completely untrue, due entirely to the first three girls he had ever dated, all of them Slytherin. The first, Pansy Parkinson, was the most consummate liar ever to due justice to the Great House of Slytherin, and she had regaled some other girls of his wildly fabricated predilections in the bedroom. Perhaps she had been mortified that he hadn't fancied her, but he had been so relieved she hadn't been more vindictive in her displeasure that he did nothing to publicly disclaim her words. The following two girls hadn't wanted to lose out in this supposed competition, and both had tried to one-up the other in endorsing his skills in the boudoir. He had been secretly enamored of his growing reputation in the beginning, not knowing how it would snowball on him.

 

Then the legend started to really gather momentum on its own and now Draco was deathly afraid of bedding any girl, much less the one he really wanted. It was the curse of the unwanted reputation, and now any girl he was seen with felt the obligation to claim that they had done the dirty together (and damned good it was too, for fear they were the only one to come out sub-par). Well, that was Draco's fault too, given his choice of dates to societal functions. None of them, in short, was Hermione Granger, nonpareil and national hero, with a completely untainted reputation, either socially or sexually. But then it wasn't like honorable witches were lining up to date a former Death Eater, despite his charitable contributions in recent years. Watching her across from him now, he envied her as much as he wanted her.

 

Today, instead of reaching into her bag and extracting her clipboard, she folded her hands one on top of the other and leveled a look at him.

 

It was the look of finality. This was it then. The end of any reason for their association. He took a sip of his drink to regain equanimity.

 

“Malfoy-”

 

“Granger,” he cut in. “You know I don't discuss business on an empty stomach. Let's eat first, hmm?”

 

She heaved a sigh and picked up her fork. After a few bites, she raised her eyebrows. “This is really good.”

 

He smirked. At every single one of their meetings, he had designated a different restaurant in the wizarding communities around the British Isles. At every single meeting, she had invariably chosen a salad and the first thing on the menu, regardless of his suggestions. “Since I was kept waiting, I took the liberty of ordering.  _ Braciole alla Napoletana.  _ This is the only place I've found that makes this sauce outside of Italy.”

 

“That sounds…extremely fattening,” she replied, setting down her fork.

 

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Granger,” he said. He would know. He probably spent more time checking her out than she did herself.

 

“You know these are Muggle dishes, right? With slight herbal substitutions.”

 

“I didn't know you were such a gourmet. Does that mean you're not going to try the  _ bagna càuda _ ? Or this toasted ravioli?”

 

She bowed to temptation. “All right, maybe I could eat a little more.”

 

“Excellent. I noticed that you like beef more than any other meats. This is veal  _ scaloppine _ with--what's the matter?”

 

“I...don't eat veal,” she said in a quiet voice.

 

Draco made the connection almost at once and could have slapped himself upside the head for not thinking of it first. Of course Hermione Granger would be against cutting up baby calves and roasting them in their mother's milk. He moved the plate so that it was the furthest dish from her. “It's better than unicorn blood, right?” he cracked, and was rewarded when  she gave him a small smile. “We can order something else.”

 

“There's no need,” she said. “This is plenty--too much, actually. I'm really sorry about being late. You must've been bored out of your mind waiting--you've practically ordered everything on the menu.” 

 

He could count on his hand the number of times she had smiled at him. Generally it was directed to the paper in her hand or at the thought of a work-related victory. He chalked that phenomenon behind his less than bright repartee: “Yes, well…”

 

“Listen, Malfoy. You've been extremely helpful in all these meetings. I would just like to, on behalf of the Ministry law enforcement division, thank you for your help.”

 

She was all earnestness over the conclusion of their meetings, lifting her wineglass to him. He tried to force the tightness in his jaw to relax. He reached forward and clinked her glass with his. “Cheers,” he said and tossed back the contents.

 

“I know this has been a burden to you,” she said slowly, tracing a fold in the tablecloth with a fingertip. “And that you wouldn't have wanted to cooperate unless under a Ministry order. But it's been, frankly, quite enlightening discussing magical theories and history with you.”

 

That made him all sorts of happy. He quirked a brow. “I suppose you're not used to intellectual conversation, what with the company you keep,” he drawled. “Still, there's no need to fish for compliments. You know you're bloody brilliant yourself.”

 

Now she was the one flushing. “Well, you're not half bad either, Malfoy, despite personality issues.”

 

“Don't be impertinent, and ruin a perfectly good moment of mutually congratulatory accord.”

 

One side of her mouth lifted. “You have such a way with words.”

 

“If not for my equally outstanding talent in potions and arithmancy, I could make a fortune translating runic verse,” he said. “Ode to A Dying Manticore and all that.”

 

She shook her head. “I would ask, but I don't want to get sidetracked. At the risk of incurring a protracted lecture, would you be at all adverse to acting as a consultant to the MLE?”

 

When he didn't immediately reply, she hurried on with a speech that she had clearly prepared beforehand. “It's a pity that you're not working in the Ministry, and I mean that sincerely. You were always better at potions than I was, and with what you've given us to work with, we really could use your help.”

 

He took his time responding as to not seem overeager. “I'm listening.”

 

“First, I need a wand oath to make sure this conversation is completely confidential.”

 

It wasn't as though he was preparing to out her words to the  _ Prophet. _ As a matter of habit, he kept most of his dealings close to his chest, so he obligingly took out his wand and touched the tip of it to hers. A brief mutter and there was a small line of yellow light that connected both their wands for a few seconds. There was something in that foggy glow that excited him, since it meant he was connected to  _ her. _

 

She picked up her wand and broke the connection first, waving it in a small circle to establish a  _ Muffliato _ charm, one he had taught her on their first meeting. (She really was straightforward and open to a fault, this one.)

 

“We want you personally to develop a series of potions for use on witnesses and prisoners,” she said quietly. “Malfoy Enterprises will be compensated, of course, and although it wouldn't be what you could make on the market, you would personally have the gratitude of the Ministry.”

 

He had been listening with nothing more revealing on his face than raised eyebrows. Inside, though, his mind was reeling. The gratitude of the Ministry, as she was well aware, was worth more than any compensation in Galleons. After the war, his reputation, along with the Malfoy name, had been shot, notwithstanding their last minute defection--or maybe because of it. There was just no way to tell where Malfoys stood, unlike the other Death Eaters who took a strange pride in going down with the snakey ship that was the Dark Lord.

 

“Of course, you'd have to work with me on this project,” she said carefully, sneaking a look at him as though uncertain of his reaction.

 

Merlin, what had she expected? Draco wondered. Did she still, even now, expect him to throw a fit over having to interact with someone of “lesser blood”? He had always hid his feelings toward her in a triple-locked box labeled “forbidden” because of her background. But surely anyone would have thought, rightly so, that was over and done with the moment the Dark Lord had appeared with his hypocritical and downright scary ideals. Even doddering Dumbledore was infinitely better than a psychomaniac who refused to stay dead even when his face had gone to the grave ahead of him.

 

“That shouldn't be a problem, Granger. You clean up nicely when you put your mind to it,” he said, and never had he meant it more. But this must not have come across as the compliment he meant it to be because she only quirked up one side of her lips. 

 

“A magnanimous compliment from the man who's dated some of the most beautiful witches in the world,” she said dryly.

 

He was puzzled by her tone, but then he realized she was being sarcastic. Some of the most beautiful--ah, right, the blasted  _ Witch Weekly _ . She didn't realize that he meant the compliment and more, and coming from him, that really meant something. He had been raised in a family of good looks and raised to believe in the value of packaging. But somewhere between his father's selling him out to the Dark Lord and his Aunt Bella's crazed and spit-infused adoration of said theories, he began to realize that beauty started and ended with the surface. His father had once been so handsome that he could get his way without the use of magic or money, and his Aunt Bella beautiful enough to claim Veela heritage. Both had the foresight of--well, something that has absolutely rubbish foresight. It wasn't enough, he discovered, and stunning good looks weren't enough either without that  _ something more. _ He should know. He had been on plenty of first dates with a whole slew of package-worthy witches who left him completely knackered with boredom.

 

Draco only hoped the witch now sitting across from him knew that.  _ You're beautiful _ , he thought. Inside and out, then and now, and probably forever after, if only he had the luck to be there to see it. “Even if you are a swot, you're still loads more attractive than Rogers,” he said, trying to evince sincerity from every pore. 

 

She rolled her eyes at him. Rogers was another MLE officer, as well as being fifty and overweight. “That's a glaring endorsement, thanks. But enough about me. About this project…”

 

“I'll do it,” he said.

 

Up went her eyebrows. “That's _ very _ good of you, Malfoy. I must say, you're being very good about this whole thing--I hadn't expected it would be so easy to persuade you. Davies said you weren't exactly easy to convince with regards to our--er, previous arrangement.”

 

That was because Davies had come to convince him himself instead of sending someone who could have convinced him with no words whatsoever. He shrugged in what he hoped was an enigmatic fashion.

 

“This calls for a celebration,” she said, smiling now with relief. She discreetly waved her wand and disengaged the  _ muffliato  _ spell and called the waiter over. “How about a bottle of wine?”

 

They decided on a house red. Mainly it was her choice, as she emphasized that the Ministry would be footing the bill. He had acquiesced gracefully, not wanting to dim her high spirits, although he had never let her pay for their meals on the very off chance they ever evolved into something more.

 

She really was in high spirits tonight though, he thought, as he watched her with amusement. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair coming undone (really, he preferred it better down anyway) and her eyes glittering. They had moved on from talking about the project to other research projects of hers. She had been drinking steadily from the carafe without noticing that he was laughing companionably at one of her theories--this one involving the Great Wall of China and the evolution of magic according to the direction of the earth's revolution. She probably wasn't wrong, but he enjoyed seeing her get so passionate about something completely obscure (though he wouldn't have been surprised if in the next five years, it was suddenly validated and important beyond belief). Unlike when he was at school, he had nothing to lose by acknowledging her brains.

 

The time passed surprisingly fast and he offered to side-along apparate with her.

 

She took a deep breath and looked dizzy with the effort. “I…would appreciate that, thanks.”

 

He paid the bill as she was gathering her things together, none too steady on her feet. And then he escorted her outside before they disappeared with a sharp pop and a pull.

 

She was holding onto him when they reappeared in front of her flat a block away from Diagon Alley, and he enjoyed the sensation so much he held onto her waist longer than necessary to keep her standing.

 

“Oops,” she giggled. “I'm really sorry about this, Malfoy. I must've had more to drink than usual. Hey! I forgot to settle the bill!” 

 

“Don't worry about it,” he said, and turned her towards her flat before she thought of returning to the restaurant.

 

“But I--”

 

“You can pay me back later,” he said.

 

“Okay,” she said, and then lurched forward towards her flat.

 

He watched her steps with trepidation and then with a sigh, he followed behind her as she made her way up the stairs.

 

At her door, he watched her unlock her door without a shake in her wandwork. And then, as he opened his mouth to say goodbye, he found himself being jerked down by her hands and his mouth pressed against hers.

 

It took him only a moment to recover from the shock of his life and get into the kiss with just as much enthusiasm. After all, he had been waiting for this exact opening for ages and when opportunity called, he always planned on zipping into action.

 

But no, she was drunk. 

 

He pulled away reluctantly. “Listen, I should--”

 

“You want me too,” she whispered, eyes surprisingly clear as she held onto his shirtfront.

 

He realized that, yes, she could probably tell from some very obvious anatomical signs that he was more into the kiss than he was saying. “Of course I do, Granger!” he said with some exasperation. “Who wouldn't? But you're drunk and I--”

 

“I have a confession to make,” she said, looking embarrassed but determined. “I'm not really drunk.”

 

What--oh. Now he got it. Her steady hands. Her precise but giggling speech. Her clear eyes. Miracles of miracles, she wanted him too. His breath caught on a hitch as he tried to shut his brain down from overanalyzing the wherefores of everything. Well, wasn't this score one for the bad guys? 

 

And he let her pull him into her flat.

  
  


***

 

When he awoke in the morning, his brain did a quick and fevered recount of the evening before--namely on his performance. It wasn't that he hadn't had experience in the events leading up to the final act--he had them. But when it came down to the crunch, Draco would never have admitted to anyone that he was still true and untried. Never mind, he  _ still _ wasn't going to 'fess up to anyone, not even himself. But he thought he acquitted himself quite satisfactorily, and several times too. Well, that was because he was a right randy bastard after having played out last night's scenario in his mind only about a million times prior to its actual happening. As a matter of fact, he couldn't help but reach for her several times throughout the night until she had groaned, “No more!” But he had set out to convince her until she giggled and acquiesced with moans that sent shivers down his spine.

 

With a happy sigh, he rolled over and stretched out a hand for her warm body only to find her side of the bed empty.

 

He sat up and blinked. The sound of running water could be heard through an adjoining door. That was fine then. He laid back down until he was struck with the thought that maybe he should get breakfast for them--he was the man, wasn't he? He should provide the food.

 

But before he could act on his incoherent thoughts, the door opened, and Granger--no, dammit, he had seen the woman naked-- _ Hermione  _ came out in a bathrobe and her hair wrapped up in a towel. Her cheeks were flushed and the room was suddenly infused with  _ essence of Hermione _ . 

 

“Morning,” he said in a voice that was several octaves lower than normal, due to the hour and his activities from the night before.

 

“Good morning,” she said brightly, looking anywhere but at him. “Um, do you--er, I need to--that is… I didn't expect to find you still here.”

 

He raised his eyebrows. “You wore me out.”

 

She blushed. “Um, right. So I have to be at work pretty soon. Can you--the door is spelled to ward up when the last occupant leaves, so…”

 

He stretched and laced his fingers under his head. Her blush deepened as she sought somewhere else to look. She busied herself by rummaging in a large wardrobe. “Are you sure I can't persuade you back into this bed?” he graveled before clearing his throat.

 

“I really do have to be going,” she said and bolted for the bathroom again.

 

He made a leisurely toilette, getting up to gather all his discarded items of the night before, but couldn't find his tie anywhere.

 

She emerged from the bathroom again, looking less wet and less delectable and more dressed for the Ministry. Her hair was now dry and pulled tightly into a low bun. His lips twitched. It was as though she was trying to convince him the night before had never occurred--not a buggering chance in hell, he thought.

 

“Can I see you tonight?” he asked.

 

“I don't know if I can,” she said, trying to edge around him.

 

“We have a project to discuss, remember?” 

 

“Um, right. Yes. Okay, so I'll owl you, yeah?”

 

His heart gave a happy jump and he leaned in to kiss her. She turned her head away at the last second so his lips brushed her cheeks. Right. Morning breath. Time for snogging later then. 

 

“I'll see you later then,” he said, and backed out of the room to give her some space. She was starting to look discomfited and he didn't want to be a guest who outstayed his welcome, particularly as he already got what he wanted--a promise of future contact.

 

He let himself out of her flat and apparated to the Manor before getting ready to go to the laboratory. He spent a morning lost in thought. Her flat was tiny. Where would they live if they were going to live together? Not the Manor, he negated. It probably held bad memories for her, and plus he rather relished the thought of their own personal space. Maybe a cozy place somewhere close to the Ministry--she  _ really _ liked walking instead of apparating, he had noticed. Pureblood wizards customarily got married before they lived together, but he was willing to give other customs a try. No, slow down. He was getting way ahead of himself.

 

He returned to the Manor for lunch with his mother. 

 

“Hello, darling,” she said, bussing him on the cheeks before spelling off the lipstick residue. “You look…extremely elated. Did something good happen?”

 

He shrugged, a picture of nonchalance. “Perhaps.”

 

They sat down in the gardens and waited for Narcissa to tap the table with her wand and summon the food to appear. “So? What has happened to put roses in your cheeks?” his mother asked.

 

He forced himself to chew steadily, giving nothing away. “I had dinner with Her--Granger.”

 

“Yes, the Ministry-mandated discussion of Malfoy Ready-Made Potions and Magical Supplies,” she said with raised eyebrows. “Surely that is not exactly cause for celebration?”

 

“The Ministry has deemed me so helpful that they would like to contract with Malfoy Enterprises into creating a line of products for their specific use,” he said, ignoring her pointed line of questioning.

 

“Interesting,” she replied. “Will you be continuing to liaise with the Muggle-born then?”

 

“I believe so, mother,” he replied. “But she is preferable to someone else in her division as she is capable of understanding the most complex of topics and magical theories.”

 

“Hmm. Well, it can only be good associating with her in public,” she said more mildly than he had expected. “And it will be good to be seen on good terms with the Ministry.”

 

“Precisely as I thought, mother. I'm so glad we agree.” 

 

Much as he enjoyed lunching with his mother, he was relieved when it was over. Truth be told, he  _ was  _ rather elated, and if he had to withstand a few more minutes of polite chatter, he was afraid he would blurt out his secret, just so he could tell someone. Not that there was anything to tell... _ yet _ .

 

He continued to wait impatiently throughout the day for an owl.

 

***

 

He was already at the restaurant when she arrived and stood to pull out her chair. She had been ready to pull it out herself and their hands overlapped one another on the back of the chair and she jerked back.

 

“Allow me,” he said.

 

When they were both seated, she cast a  _ muffliato _ and leaned forward. “Listen, about the project we discussed last night. I spoke with my supervisor and we, er, he deemed it best that Andrews takes over from me.”

 

He blinked at the urgency in her voice. “I see. So this is our last meeting to discuss business?” That wasn't what he wanted, but so long as he could keep seeing Granger-- _ Hermione _ in any capacity, he didn't much care.

 

“Yes,” she said with a sigh of relief before squaring her shoulders. “Erm, so, about last night.”

 

Now he leaned forward and took ahold of her hands which were twisting the tablecloth into stiff peaks. “Yes, you were wonderful. No worries there, I assure you,” he teased. “Top of the class. Is that what the overachiever in you wanted to hear?”

 

She gave a weak smile. “Malfoy--”

 

“Don't you think you should call me Draco now?”

 

“Okay, whatever. Draco, then. Listen, last night is just an isolated event, if you will. It was just something I wanted to...try and I wanted to meet with you because it can't happen again.”

 

Happiness bit the dust. His smile withered on his face. He sat back and surveyed her with cold eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“It's just that--well, it's been a really long time and you're very attractive, really, when you aren't being a prat. And it could just be speculation, but such a lot of witches have claimed your, er, expertise, so I thought, in the interest of science, you know, that I wouldn't mind seeing if the gossip was true. And it  _ was _ \--blew my mind, really, I mean--five times is quite impressive. And I know from those magazines that you never talk about it, so I thought it'd be safe to, you know, test the waters.” She took a deep breath and stared beseechingly at him.

 

He stared back at her, not knowing if he should be insulted or flattered. He opted to concentrate on the only thing she had said that mattered--the not happening again bit. “So, despite said impressive performance, it won't be happening again?”

 

She looked relieved that he understood. “Right.”

 

“And these--collaborative dinners are also at an end?”

 

She squirmed a bit. “Erm, yes.”

 

“Granger,” he bit out. Now definitely was no time for lovey-dovey first names. “Am I to understand that you essentially used me for a roll in the proverbial hay?”

 

Now she was narrowing her eyes in some annoyance. “Malfoy, a good time was had by all concerned--I hope--so excuse me if I don't understand the recriminations.”

 

Of course she didn't, the daft bint, he thought with growing anger. She wasn't to know the hopes he had hinged on last night. The emotions that had surged through him when he felt her small hands willingly touching him, tugging at his tie and shirt. The whirling colors that had flashed before his eyes when he saw her unclothed, her small and perfect body rivaled in size by her voluminous hair. The thought in the back of his mind that told him he was staring at everything he had ever wanted ever since the war ended and he looked up at the podium to see the Golden Trio commemorated for their service. 

 

Back then, he had sneaked looks across the way and saw with a sinking heart the fond touches between Granger and the Weasel that indicated a less than platonic understanding. He had tried to reason them out--why, for the love of Merlin, was Granger (inarguably equal parts smart, cunning, and ruthless--witness her ability to lie to Aunt Bella under a  _ crucio _ \--that was just fitness personified) with the dimmest wizard their year, second only to Neville Longbottom, who was almost a squib? But he knew Granger was also compassionate (she was friends with the nimrods, wasn't she?) and she valued loyalty. He supposed it wasn't  _ that _ big a stretch. He himself had surrounded himself with loyal friends who were none too bright, although he wouldn't have dated them. Okay, so maybe he had dated people similar to them in all but appearances once or twice.

 

Still, despite everything, it hadn't dimmed his dormant feelings for her. He had envied what they had together and wondered what it would be like if it were  _ he  _ standing there holding hands with her. Of course that was a blind hope, made blinder by just how far his father had dragged their once sterling name through the mud, although, to be fair, he himself had done jack squat about it.

 

He got angrier just thinking about it, though, consumed by a wave of self-pity. In their small society, there was no escaping any part of his past. While Ron Weasley was able to stand next to her and hold her hand in public, he was only good as a secret fuck in the dark. That right there was yet another ironic aspect of the shitfest that was his life. The fact that she and Weasley were no longer together did nothing to calm his ire.

 

“Well, flattered as I am that you decided to grant me with a few fucks, it's not good enough payment for the Ministry contract,” he drawled in his most condescending voice.

 

Her lips were starting to compress in the way they had when they first started these meetings six months ago. “I didn't-- _ excuse _ me? That wasn't  _ payment _ for anything! How dare you say something like that?”

 

He didn't even know what he was saying anymore, to be honest. “Granger, we had a deal. It's going to be you, or nobody. Do you understand that? And trust me when I say I won't think twice about taking my work to the next bidder.”

 

Her eyes were wide with horror and distaste. “We have a deal, Malfoy. You can't renege--”

 

“Like you, I suppose? Only the war hero can renege on deals?” He pulled out his wand and tapped out a series of motions that caused the verbal terms yesterday to float up in a puff. Another wave, and the terms swung around her head.

 

“All right!” she bit out through clenched teeth. “Honestly, what's with you? I thought you'd be happy with this out, that it'll make things... easier and not as awkward.”

 

The only thing he found happy about her statement was the fact that clearly she didn't go around shagging for the sake of science on a regular basis, or else there'd be tons of wizards she'd have to avoid on a daily basis. “Who said it'll be awkward?” he asked with a shrug. “I'm sure as hell not letting my personal life interfere with my business dealings with the Ministry.”

 

Clearly not liking the implication that she wasn't as professional as he was, she lifted her chin. “Fine. Our agreement stands.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I don't have a problem with this.”

 

“Neither do I,” she returned.

 

And he couldn't, for the life of him, understand what went wrong.

 

***

 

He was in a damned bad mood when he happened to run into Ron Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron. He hadn't had any opportunity to speak to the redhead since the war ended, but they had always civilly gone about one another's business when they saw each other in public. This was in direct contrast to the time when Draco went out of his way to make Weasley’s life miserable in school.

 

It had been a while since that time, but damned if he didn't feel like reviving some old customs. He made his way over to the bar, where Weasley was chatting to someone who looked vaguely Hufflepuffish.

 

“A firewhiskey,” Draco snapped. “Unless the two of you want to get a room first.”

 

The Hufflepuff girl turned away to wordlessly get his drink. Draco stared straight forward until Weasley's gaze started to burn the side of his face.

 

“Weasley, I don't swing that way, so you can stop staring at me,” he said, lips curling into a sneer.

 

When there was no response, he glanced sideways to see if Weasley was flushing the color of red beets and his mouth puckering like a fish out of water. Instead, Weasley was holding a tankard up to his mouth and drinking.

 

“You know,” Weasley said thoughtfully when he had finished slurping and had wiped the back of his hand across his mouth in the classic move of someone who didn't understand the use of napkins. “From how Hermione described her meetings with you, I never would have put you down as still such a wanker.”

 

Draco's mouth had been open to deliver a few more barbed comments, but it clamped closed in a hurry. “I beg your pardon?” he said frostily, hoping more information would be shed. His ears had been pricked up in alert ever since the word "Hermione" crossed the git's tongue.

 

Weasley took his sweet time responding. He drained his tankard, said something to the Hufflepuff bartender, dug into his pocket for some money (probably his last coins, sneered Draco to himself), and then turned to Draco with a surprisingly non-beet-colored face. “Yeah. Spoke of you in glowing terms, she did. Would have thought she was referring to some other bloke.” He shrugged. “I guess some things never change. Cheers.”

 

Maybe some things  _ had  _ changed, if Ron Weasley could speak to him with equanimity and offer some surprisingly pointed comments. To wit: his implication that he was on good terms with Hermione Granger and that she would hear of Draco Malfoy's unsurprising wanker-like behavior.

 

“Wait,” Draco said, halting the bigger man with a hand on his arm.

 

Weasley looked down at the hand detaining him and back up to Draco. Draco let go immediately. “My apologies if I seemed uncivil,” Draco said with grim inflexion, sounding more like he was hexing the other wizard than offering an apology. 

 

That was when he realized with no satisfaction at all that Ron Weasley could be the bigger man. “No problem, mate,” the redhead said. “We've all had bad days.”

 

In fact, he was so pleasant about things that Draco unbent to ask, “What did she say about me?” He hoped he attained the tone of utter carelessness.

 

“Nothing much. Said we've all changed since the war, to give you another chance. Something about you having it harder than any of us would know.” Weasley grinned, although it seemed mostly to himself. “You know, typical Hermione bleeding heart stuff.” Then he stopped grinning and stared at Draco as though in challenge. “But maybe you don't know.”

 

The thing of it was, he did. He wouldn't have felt how he felt about her if he didn't know all that, how big-hearted she was despite the fact that he should have been her biggest enemy. The endless taunting and name-calling she endured from him...for crying out loud, his aunt had tortured her half to death right there in his home, and she still thought he was the one who got a raw deal. He looked down at the counter, and he thought that maybe it was the man standing next to him that really deserved her. “Are you still together?”

 

Weasley's brow furrowed as though he couldn't believe he was having this conversation with him. Truth be told, Draco couldn't believe it either, and he was the one who had asked the last question. He shrugged and tried to play it off as though he could care less.

 

Weasley, the good chap he really seemed to be despite the lack of proper etiquette, sighed and said, “No, we didn't work out. But we're still friends. Big on staying friends, is our Hermione.”

 

Draco wanted to ask all manner of questions. “Better luck next time,” he said gruffly, for lack of anything else to say. 

 

Somehow Weasley nodded and took it for an olive branch that it (maybe?) was. “Sure, thanks. You too, I guess. Although I don't know if you're seeing anyone or if you're married.”

 

“No, I'm not married,” he replied after a short pause. 

 

“Well, I won't say this hasn't been weird, but I guess Hermione wasn't wrong. You could be all right,” Weasley was saying. There was a weird tilt to his lips that could be any expression from a smile to a grimace.

 

“Thanks,” Draco replied sarcastically and then he was left all alone at the counter to stew in his own thoughts.

 

She had stood up for him to her friends, defended his ways to them and tried to explain his past pratly behavior.  _ He  _ hadn't even apologized for said behavior, and he had apologized to Ronald Weasley tonight. What did that say about him?

 

Maybe it was the Firewhiskey (which always made him maudlin) or his encounter with Weasley (to be completely honest, he hadn't been so changed that he hadn't been looking for a good fight when he went to the Leaky Cauldron). All he knew at that moment was that he had to apologize to Hermione Granger right away. And damned if he wasn't confuddled as all hell what to call her now, so her full name it was.

 

He was feeling too lashed to apparate and took a chance that her place was connected to the Leaky Cauldron and flooed there.

 

It was connected, as it turned out, but she had warded up the exact perimeter of the fireplace so that he was standing, crouched in as hes, and banging on the invisible barrier. “Hermione Granger!” he shouted. 

 

She came into the living area from the other room, having scrubbed her face clean of all makeup and her hair had been pulled back and bundled up so that she looked like a cleaning lady.

 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?” she asked, looking none too pleased to see him.

 

“Can you let me in, please?” he asked, knees still slightly bent since he wasn't able to stand up fully, and his head was tilted to one side and probably covered with grime. He hated flooing. 

 

She made a grimace, but waved her wand so that he suddenly pitched forward onto her floor before being stopped by her coffee table, which smacked him on the forehead.

 

“ _ Fucking _ hell!” he cursed, touching his tender forehead.

 

She tsked a bit, which seemed to be the extent of her sympathy tonight, but she murmured an incantation that made the pain in his head go away.

 

“Well?” she demanded, arms crossing over her chest in the universal sign of “sod off.”

 

Now that he was here, he was suddenly appallingly sober and had no idea where to start. “Er…” he said eloquently. “Do you have a spot of tea?” he asked, stalling.

 

She rolled her eyes, but stomped off in the direction he assumed was the kitchen. He hoped she was also going to fix her appearance a bit, not because he didn't want to shag her no matter what, but because he knew how much women set in store by their appearance. It boded poorly for him if she no longer cared what she looked like in his company, and he now realized that she had taken some extra care when dining with him for the past few months or so.

 

He took a seat on her couch while he waited for her. The distance between the couch and the coffee table was entirely too narrow for him and he realized, happily so, that she didn't often have male company. But how to return her feelings to that of yesterday? He hadn't a clue, mostly because he had no idea what caused her to jump him. But he really, really wished he knew so that he could keep her in that state of mind.

 

Oh right, he wasn't here to shag her, although that would be nice. She would slip onto the couch next to him, pull the headband from her hair, and turn to him. “Draco,” she murmured. “Do you want to…”

 

“Well?” Real-life Hermione Granger was saying with a glare and nodding at the teacup she had set in front of him. “There's your tea. Anything else?”

 

That was too sarcastic to interpret as any sort of come-on, although he was encouraged by the fact she had taken the headband out of her hair. He cleared his throat and took a sip to play for time. “I came because I realized something. Er...in all the time we've chatted, I never…apologized for my past pratly actions. So I came here to rectify that.”

 

She rolled her eyes again, but she uncrossed her arms and sat down at an armchair adjacent to him. “And this couldn't wait for daylight hours?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, I appreciate it,” she said. “Although to be fair, I've said my share of hurtful comments to you throughout the years as well.”

 

“Oh, come on!” he said in disbelief. “I called you-- _ really _ offensive things--”

 

She shrugged. “It didn't mean that much during school years, though. I guess because I didn't grow up knowing what it meant. And I appreciate the apology, Malfoy, but like I said, I've said and thought some awful things about you too.”

 

His lips flat-lined. This was going nowhere like how he intended, partially because she was so competitive that even the name-calling in the past and the apology exchange was turning into a battle for supremacy. “It's Draco,” he muttered, flattening his hands on his thighs.

 

“What?”

 

“I said, the name’s Draco,” he said in a louder voice. “That's what you called me the other night, Draco.”

 

She blushed and looked away. “Okay,  _ fine. _ ”

 

“The thing is, I don't understand why the other night happened. And I don't understand why you're acting like it never happened or like you wished it never happened. I thought--maybe you were still mad about all the things I called you back at school and I just wanted to--” Draco was suffering from major word vomit and soon it would turn into actual vomit because if he stopped to think about what all he was saying and revealing, he really would feel sick. He swiped a finger across his brow and yes, he was even sweating.

 

“No!” she said, blushing even more. “Well, yes. Maybe. I don't know!”

 

“What does that mean? Yes, you're still angry?”

 

“It means--” She threw her hands up in the air. “It means that it didn't hurt me in school. I thought you were a prat, but I didn't take what you said seriously. But I guess it affected me a lot more than I thought it did because no matter how I feel about you  _ now _ , I can't stop but think that you once harbored these sorts of beliefs, beliefs that caused your family members to support someone who wanted to kill people like me. And, and, these deep rooted beliefs don't just go away--they stay with you forever, and when I think about it, I don't even know what I was thinking the other night and I think it shouldn't have happened because it can't go anywhere and, and…that's it.”

 

He stared at her in horrified silence. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach like someone had punched him and he was absorbing the blow in slow motion--so slow that time seemed to return over and over to the same moment where he kept feeling the effects of the blow. “I... didn’t realize that it had hurt you like that,” he said, looking down at his hands. He hadn't realized the psychological damage it had done to her, his past behavior, that it--and he--would be permanently tied to the Dark Mark on his left arm and all that it stood for in her mind. Perhaps if he had been less of an arse in school years, it wouldn't have caused such an unfavorable connection. But now there would be no chance for them because whenever she looked at him in the light of day, she would forever be seeing that horrible bully he used to be, the one who spouted prejudiced lies like a broken fountain so that she could never disassociate the two in her mind. “I'm sorry,” he said, not looking up at his hands, which were now lying palm up on his thighs. Empty hands. Empty of hope. “I'm really sorry.”

 

“I--know you're not like now,” she said, laying a hand on his forearm. “I know that logically. You've...changed even though you still say really stupid things sometimes but…”

 

He shrugged without looking up as he stood. What good was her logical reasoning when it meant nothing deep down, where she could never see him as anything other than a Death Eater? As though he never stared at the mark on his left arm and wished he could burn the damn thing off or sear the memories of those years from his brain, especially the memory of his crazy aunt torturing this girl in front of him, when he saw for the first time what blood prejudice really meant, what those hurtful words he had said just to get her attention really meant. Now all he really wanted to do was to go home and get really bleeding drunk so that he wouldn't have to think about this night ever again.

 

“It's just--I can...see myself really liking you and it would--” she broke off as he looked up.

 

Her eyes were darting around the room, looking at anything but him. Honestly, her body language weren't giving the biggest encouragement in the world, but  _ any _ sign of encouragement would have been sufficient to bring him back from the edge of despair. “You could?”

 

“Of course!” she said, blushing so hard that her hair would soon turn color. “Why else would I have--the other night… You're such an idiot!”

 

He must be, because he had been through such a swirl of emotions within the past few minutes that his brain wasn't processing anything at this point. All he could do was to go forward on the few bits of positive information he had received, and the lack of the headband was still lingering foremost in his beleaguered mind. He grabbed her arm as she turned to flounce away.

 

“I really like you too,” he said, pulling on her arm although she was attempting to pull in the opposite direction. “I  _ really,  _ really like you, Hermione Granger.” 

 

“Just because you're all into first names now doesn't mean anything,” she said, rolling her eyes.

 

“It's not a whim,” he said. “It's always just been you.” It felt a relief to finally say it, even though he had always dreaded this secret of his being out in the open.

 

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “You must think I'd believe in the Easter bunny too.”

 

“I don't know what that is,” he said, but it didn't matter. “But you  _ know _ it's true--that you're the only one.”

 

He held her gaze. He wanted--no, he  _ needed _ for her to believe him. It seemed as though it all boiled down to this moment, that all their years of surface hatred and ugly name-calling and the past months of flirtatious banter--it all had to happen for him to get up the nerve to say what he never thought he would ever say in the light of day. Because there it was--he had saved himself so that one day he could look at her and hold her hand and maybe exchange a few promises with her that signified the beginning of a lifetime together. Even though at one point it had all been a faint hope in hell, it had been, he realized now, a faint hope in hell he had nurtured deep within him.

 

Something flickered behind her eyes--skepticism, doubt, shock, and realization as the memory of a hundred moments from the night before flashed through her brain. “I--that's a lot to process,” she said.

 

“Yeah, it's a bit ridiculous when you think about,” he said, ruling his eyes and trying to play it off.

 

“Don't,” she said. “You always do that. You do something lovely and then you go out of your way to say some arsey thing to make me dislike you again.”

 

He couldn't rebut that because it was true; it had always been true. “Maybe you can remind me,” he suggested. “Whenever I get too, er, arsey.”

 

Her lips lifted in one corner. “I guess someone has to.”

 

The hope inside him started to build into a small flame. “Okay.”

 

“But not tonight,” she said sternly.

 

“Okay.”

 

"Maybe...tomorrow?" she suggested tentatively, and it was the most beautiful two words he had ever heard in his life.

 

FIN  
  



End file.
